DOINGS AT THE THING
To the Thing at Thorsness came all the West. When Berse came there with
his friends he was late. Most of the booths were full, and he could not
get his proper place in that of his chief, Anlaf Peacock of Herdholt.
There was a great crowd. In the seat which Berse had always had, next
to his friend Thord, there sat a large man, very broad-shouldered,
covered with a bearskin. Over his head he had a hood made of the skin,
which fell before his eyes and made a darkness. He had a black beard
down to his breast. Between his knees was a long sword in a grey sheath
of walrus hide, and both his hands were upon the hilt of it.
Berse looked him over, and puzzled who he was.
He asked his neighbour--“Tell me, who is our huge friend?”
“Some call him Glum, some call him Grim. I don’t know what his real
name is, but I am sure it is neither of those.”
“Well,” said Berse, “we’ll have it out of him presently.”
Men were jostling and crowding in the booth, all talking together,
drinking and making jokes. Berse bided his time, and presently trod
heavily on the foot of the covered man.
He drew it in hastily. “Steady, there!” he said.
Then Berse turned to look at him. “So you live--some part of you? I was
thinking you disposed for burial, and was minded to pile stones over
you.”
“A cairn will be built, it is very like,” said the Stranger, “but the
dead man is not known who shall sit in it.”
“Now,” said Berse, “we will make some way towards knowing his name.
You shall tell us yours, to begin with, whether Scrum, or Glum, or
Bears’-Paws, or whatever it may be. And then you shall tell us why you
choose to sit in the dark.”
The Stranger pushed his hood back and showed his fierce face and black
beard. He was very white-skinned, but his hair and eyes dark as thunder.
“Stanhere is my name,” he said, “and I am of this country. I may have
money of Cormac’s to pay over to you, or I may not.”
“Oho! That’s it, then?” says Berse. “Cormac has been long settling his
accounts. I wonder that I don’t see him here.”
“You will see him,” said Stanhere, “but not yet. Now I challenge you,
Berse, to wager-of-battle here at the Thing, and it may be that you
will get double ransom; but I think myself that you will get none.”
Berse chuckled. “You and your friends are in a hurry to get rid of me,”
he said; “but I have been too bony for Cormac to swallow, and perhaps I
may give you a stomach-ache before I’ve done with you. You take a high
road, it seems to me. Perhaps you may stumble one of these fine days.
One-and-thirty men have tried to stretch me out, you must know.”
Stanhere looked straight before him, an immovable kind of man. “We
don’t desire your death,” he said.
“Then what in thunder do you desire?” Berse asked him.
“We desire to put you in your place,” said Stanhere.
“You’ve done that already,” Berse told him.
Afterwards the day of meeting was appointed, and before it was reached
Cormac had come to the Thing. Nobody but Stanhere knew where he had
been or what he had been doing. He had not been at home since his
battle with Berse, but he had returned Shavening to Skeggi without a
word, and then had betaken himself to his cousin Stanhere’s house.
There he had remained ever since, hardly speaking or moving. Stanhere,
who was a silent, heavy, slow-moving man himself, saw nothing in this;
but it was very unlike Cormac to be brooding.
* * * * *
Berse armed himself for the battle in his usual brisk manner. He had
Whiting, he had a target which Thorveig the spae-wife had given him; he
had Anlaf Peacock to hold his shield. He came joking to the Holm, and
when he saw Cormac was to be Stanhere’s shield-bearer, he nodded and
laughed, as if it was all a good joke.
Scryme was the name of Stanhere’s sword, and they say of it that it
never got rusty. The reason of that may be that it had no time; for
its master was as frequent a champion as Berse.
Now Berse, who began the battle, cut away two of Stanhere’s shields
one after the other; but at the third shield he got Whiting jammed in
the iron rim, and for a moment could not get him out. Cormac turned
the shield sideways and jammed Whiting the faster; then Stanhere, with
both hands to Scryme, made a huge cut at Berse, who parried with his
target--Thorveig’s gift. The target was true, and turned Scryme, but
the force of the blow could not be stayed. Scryme slid off the target
and caught Berse upon the buttock. It split the flesh from there down
the thigh to the shin-bone, and there it stuck. Berse tottered, but his
sword Whiting was free. He drove at Stanhere with all his might, shore
through his shield and target and smote him on the left breast. Then
Berse fell forward on his face, and his blood poured from him.
They carried him to the booth, and bound up his wound. It was an ugly
gash, full two feet long, and had reached the bone. The muscles were
cut clean through. But Berse was still full of his jokes. “Dig that
trench deep enough,” he said, “and Cormac will lay me in it at the next
bout.” And then he sang:
“_There was a carle at Windy-Gate_,”
which is a well-known song; and also:
“_When on my chin the young beard grew_,”
which is another.
And he said: “Steady, you there at your scraping. I have a handsome
wife at home who married a man, not a bulrush. Leave the pith in my
leg: I have a use for it.” But he was very ill, and not able to be
moved for a week or more. Even then they had to make a litter for him
and carry him down to the firth.
So it was that Stanvor, who was on the look-out every day, saw them
carrying him up. She turned rather grey, and went to find Stangerd,
who was working at a loom.
“Stangerd,” she said, “there are men coming up from the water.”
Stangerd looked at her. “Berse will be coming.” Her blue eyes were
large and bright.
“Yes, I think Berse is there,” said Stanvor, “or what is left of him.”
Stangerd grew suddenly red. “Is he dead? Is he dead?”
Stanvor said, “I am sure that he is not. He is hurt, I believe.” Then
she added: “I shall go to meet them. Or do you go?”
Stangerd said, “I shall not go. I knew that this would come of it. He
should have taken me with him. I will not go.”
Then Stanvor ran out of the house just as she was and down the path to
meet them.
Berse was in great torment, but heard her coming from a long way off,
and listened. “That’s Slimlegs,” he said. And then he sighed, and
turned away his head.
But he had a twinkle for her when she came. No words passed between
them; but Stanvor walked beside the litter, with her hand on it. And so
Berse was carried into his house.